Adjusting
by words.my.voice
Summary: Adjusting to a new life is difficult, if not impossible. John Watson struggles to go on and find peace after Sherlock's fall. But it is hard to rebuild himself if his own demons keep bringing him back down. Post-Reichenbach. No Johnlock.
1. Prologue: Faking

**Adjusting to a new life is difficult, if not impossible. John Watson struggles to go on and find peace after Sherlock's fall. But it is hard to rebuild himself that much if his own demons keep bringing him back down. Post-Reichenbach.**

**This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. There will be no Johnlock, because I felt inclined to give poor John the benefit of the doubt and believe his frequent protests that he is "not gay!" That and I am fascinated by the as yet to be introduced character of Mary and so often she is turned into a sad figure or and obstacle. So here's to seeing if my take on her will become something else. Sorry if that makes you leave, but there will be no slash. But there will plenty of angst. LOTS of angst. Please review and tell me your thoughts!**

John Watson is good at faking life.

He does all the things normal human beings do everyday.

His flat, a couple rooms on the bottom floor of an industrial style building, cheap because one can hear the constant coming and going of the streets at all hours, is clean and organized, despite the fact that it can charitably be called "cozy", and "minuscule" is more appropriate. The lack of much furniture or personal effects ameliorates the cleaning process.

He has a job in the emergency room at the hospital nearby. Not St. Barts, he will not step foot in there anymore. He shows up for work punctually and does his job efficiently, and even takes on extra shifts often for other doctors who want to go on holiday or have to meet someone. John never takes holidays.

He buys groceries, he makes dinner and tea for himself, he even sometimes puts out scraps for the stray cat that hangs around.

It's all a lie. He goes through the motions automatically, following them because it is expected and he honestly can not think of what the hell else to do.

The job is the best he could hope for. There is some small excitement in the rush and drama of the emergency room, and the patients move on too soon for him to have to remember their names or for them to become attached to him. There is no question of whether or not he will become attached to them.

Even so, he hates the job, hates having to go every day, hates getting up in the morning. Hates the fake smile he has to put on for the patients and their families. Hates that he gets pissed almost every weekend, and some weeknights, to keep himself going.

And then there are the dreams that plague him nightly. About war and falling and blood and— He will not say his name. It hurts. Everything hurts.

He is alone. Seeing old friends merely brings more pain as he watches them regard him warily and dance about the elephant in the room, trying to figure out how to address it. Harry stops by sometimes, without warning. She seems to think John needs someone to take care of him. He finds this funny, the drunkard sister taking care of her older brother, the responsible doctor. It is the only thing he finds funny anymore.

Not that he tells his therapist this. Dr. Ella Thompson. John does not tell her much of anything. He goes to her more out of habit than anything, and to keep Harry from bothering him about it. Maybe that is why sessions with her never seem to help him. Maybe it is because he does not do any of the methods of coping she suggests. Maybe it is because she still can not grasp the extent to which this has affected him. How completely his entire world has come crashing down and smashed into irrevocable pieces with one phone call and a jump.

Dr. Thompson says John is "adjusting".

John wants to tell her "No shit".

But he does not. And instead he just nods and fakes attentiveness.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	2. Connections and Coincidences

I don't know much about "connections".

I suppose I should. After all, I'm the person that after meeting a man for the first time followed him to a crime scene, was abducted and questioned about him, defended him to the aforementioned abductor, ran all over London with him, killed an insane cabbie for him, and agreed to share a flat with him, all in a little under thirty six hours.

But let me tell you I don't feel anything special as I step into the coffee shop, except for feeling that it is much too early in the morning to be out in public. Any time is the wrong time to be out in public now. My world consists solely of my sparse flat, the hospital where I work, and occasionally the Tesco down the street. I don't like human contact any more. It makes me feel awkward, exposed.

Like now for instance. My powers of observance may not be as great as… some people's, but I do notice that the barista behind the counter seems to be eyeing me from head to toe. When I catch her eye she raises an eyebrow and tucks bright red hair behind her ear.

I don't feel flattered as she, still considering me, whispers something to the other dark haired barista, who glances at me briefly before going back to serving her customer, though somewhere my brain registers that I should. That I would have almost two years ago. Now I just feel like I've suddenly been shoved on stage with no idea why I'm here and only a foggy idea of my lines.

But I have no choice. I forgot to buy coffee and there is no way I will be able to get through the morning without it. My mind is always spinning, has been for two years, but my body still reacts the same slow way it always has in the mornings. Maybe a little slower now.

So here I am, pretending to be an ordinary member of the general public. Dr. Thompson (I can't call her Ella, no matter how many times she's told me to. For someone who, as my physiatrist, is supposed to know all my secrets, I feel very impersonal towards her) says it's good for me. That I should be making "connections".

_Well, _I think, ruefully avoiding the barista's smiles, _there's one. Happy?_

The door bangs into my back with a cheerful "ding!", and I realize that I've been hesitating in the entryway. Finally forced into movement by the other customer behind me, I finally bring my cane forward and take a couple steps towards the counter.

At the sight of the long, white cane, the flirty barista suddenly wrinkles her nose and turns away. I don't always use it, and the busyness and tense excitement of work usually allows me to forget about it, but this morning my limp is particularly bad.

With another whisper to her friend, the barista bustles off, leaving me forgotten. Her friend, the other barista, doesn't turn away though. Instead she surveys me and smiles pleasantly as I approach the counter and place my order. Coffee, black, milk, no sugar.

As she brews it, I make a mental note to remember to buy coffee tonight so I don't have to go through this again tomorrow.

"That'll be £2.45. Anything else?" the non-flirty, dark haired barista asks, placing the steaming cup on the counter. I shake my head and pull out my wallet.

"No, no," she said suddenly. "Never mind. It's good."

I pause, my wallet half open in my hand. "What?"

"No charge," she waves a hand. When I continue to look baffled, she chuckles and gestures to my wallet. A quick glance at it reveals that my army identification card is visible.

**"**_**As always John, you see but you do not observe."**_

The barista holds out the coffee. "A thank you. For your service." She gives me a cheeky grin. "And thank you for your service this morning as well."

I nod, thank her politely, and leave the shop as quickly as I can, impatient to get away from the interaction and small talk and eager to lose myself, for a little bit at least, in the rush of the Emergency Room.

It's barely a few hours into the day, and already I'm exhausted. Making connections takes too much work.

* * *

I hate chip and pin machines. Loth them with the very core of my being. They are the absolute bane of my existence.

I only have two items and the sodding automated woman's voice won't let me scan them.

I'm about one more "please scan again" away from starting in on it.

_**"I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and pin machine."**  
__**"You had a row with a machine?"**  
__**"Sort of. It sat there, and I shouted abuse at it."**_

I shake my head, trying to clear it of the sudden memories that rises of —Him. Him. I like that. It's better than saying his name, even in my head. I find myself resisting a bizarre urge to start crying and or scream.

"Do you need a hand with that?" a decidedly not automated woman's voice asks.

I look to my left, and a vaguely familiar woman smiles at me. A few blinks, and her face finally clicks. It's the barista from this morning.

Not the flirty, red head one, it's the one who gave me free coffee. She has dark hair cropped short at about her chin, and her tan skin and slightly pointed nose suggests that she's Middle Eastern or Indian descent. She's dressed simply, a loose jumper, jeans, a chain with a round locket looped around her neck, and a few bangle bracelets. Her deep brown eye, so dark they're almost black, twinkle at me.

"Hello again," she says with that cheeky grin again. "This is a coincidence."

**"**_**People say there are no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead."**_

"Uh, yes, I suppose," I reply eloquently, turning back to the machine to hide my discomfort. The machine beeps in reply, and rejects my items (a bottle of cheap Scotch and some sausages) yet again.

"Here." The woman leans past me and in one fluid movement, grabs the Scotch and the sausages, hits a couple of buttons, and scans them. The machine whirs for a second, then asks me to insert my card.

I stare at it for a moment, then at her. She raises an eyebrow and points back to the machine.

"Card."

"Oh, right."

Against all odds, the rest of the transaction goes off without problem. As I'm folding my receipt and sticking it into my back pocket, the woman easily scans and pays for her own items. A cup of soup, a bottle of water, and a banana. I feel like I should say something.

"Thank you."

She looks up and smiles at me. "No problem."

That should be then end. I should make my swift and effortless exit, now that my etiquette obligation to her is fulfilled. But for some reason, I hesitate. Just a second, but it's enough.

"I'm Mary Temple," she says, holding out a hand.

I take it automatically, thrown off balance yet again. "J- John."

"John … ?"

So much for getting out of there scot-free. "Just John."

She smiles again. "Nice to meet you, Just John."

The strangest thing is not that I ran into the same woman twice in one day. It's not that I actually stopped and introduced myself (sort of). It's not even that I got through a chip and pin machine successfully (albeit with some help). No, the strangest thing of that night is that I end up walking with Mary Temple to the bus stop.

I didn't mean to, she and I had just happened to leave the shop at the same time and, after taking a few steps, realized we were going in the same direction.

Mary cheerfully makes a few attempts at light conversation.

"So, heading out somewhere fun? More exciting coffee shops?"

I fail at returning the gesture.

"Not really, no."

I don't actually know why I'm going to the bus stop. I had some half-baked idea earlier today of going to the cemetery to visit Him. I do it every once and a while when the urge strikes me, but I haven't been in a while since it takes a bit of time to get there. That and it hurts so bloody horribly each time.

Mary thankfully gives up on conversation, and we make it to the bus stop in silence. She swings her bag off her shoulder and sits down on the bench, carefully opening her cup of soup and pulling out a spoon.

I survey the bus map, tracing the stops and checking the different routs. My finger stops on the little cross that marks the cemetery, tapping it absentmindedly, while I figure out which bus to catch.

"You know, the cemetery closes at 9 o'clock, right?" Mary says softly.

I jump. I hadn't realized she'd been watching me tapping the map. "What?"

"If you're going to the cemetery, it'll be closed when you get there. You've only got fifteen minutes."

I actually had not realized that. I look back and forth between her and the map, as if watching a tennis match. To any one passing by, my confusion must have looked comical.

Mary must have thought so, because she bit back a smile. "Sorry."

Shaking my head, I step away from the map. It was stupid anyway. What was I going to do? Sit on the dirt in the dark, get pissed, eat raw sausages, and brood? I'll go some other time. Or never. "No, it's fine. I didn't think."

"You sure you haven't had a bit too much of that Scotch already?" she says, her eyes twinkling again.

I glance at the bottle. I haven't even cracked the seal yet actually. "No. Just being an idiot."

Now she does smile, putting her soup away and standing as the bus comes into view around the corner. It's a nice smile though, I can't help but notice. Softer. More, I don't know, from the heart.

"It's alright," she says, her voice almost eclipsed by the squeal of the bus brakes. "Grief does funny things to us." She says it like she knows this, and her eyes are suddenly sad.

But before I have time to register this, she is swinging her bag onto her shoulder and the twinkle is back.

"See you 'round, Just John," she grins over her shoulder, and then she's swallowed behind the automated doors, and I'm left standing alone on the cold, dark sidewalk.

It's not until I get home, eaten my sausages (but for some reason setting aside the unopened bottle of Scotch), and am in bed that I suddenly remember I forgot to buy coffee.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	3. Involuntary Reactions

The next day I work late, taking an extra shift for another doctor who came down with the flu. The following evening there is a multiple person medical crisis that goes on for hours, before I finally stumble home and straight into bed.

In short, I still have not made it to Tesco to buy coffee. Which means, by Friday, I am frequenting the café for the third morning of the week.

The door chime is even becoming familiar as I step inside. I debated getting coffee from the staffroom at the hospital (it's certainly cheaper) but a bad experiences with it the morning after going to the café for the first time, revealed that it tastes like lukewarm water that something's died in. Mary Temple's teasing smile as I walk in though, nearly makes me reconsider the idea though. Nearly.

"Good morning Just John!" she chirps. I try not to flinch. An attempt at staying anonymous has become a nickname. Fantastic.

"Good morning," I reply, just like a normal person. "Coffee, black, milk, no sugar please."

"Yes sir," Mary replies cheekily, punching the buttons on the register. I pull out my wallet and pay. She'd offered to give it to me free again, but after the first time I insisted.

"Coming right up." Humming lightly, she bustles around making the coffee and I watch her absentmindedly.

The uniform here, I've noticed, is a white shirt, black apron, and jeans (how's that for powers of observation?), but Mary puts her own spin on it, with a white V-neck, the round locket, and a couple of the bangle bracelets I noticed before. Two of the bracelets clink together as she jumps to reach the spare milk, but the rest are rope knotted together. The kind kids make at summer camp.

Along with a pen, there's a book sticking out of her apron pocket. Small, red cover, and dog-eared. If He were here, He would probably be able to tell exactly what book it was, how Mary likes it, and where she got it. But He's not here.

The sudden thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth and makes my stomach twist. I involuntarily put a hand to it, blinking hard and gritting my teeth.

"You alright? Stomach bothering you?" Mary notices my discomfort as she brings a steaming cup over and sets it on the counter. "We've got things to eat if that might settle it. Muffins 'n fruit 'n stuff."

I'm already shaking my head a she trails off. "No, I'm fine. Thanks."

She smiles gently. "You sure? Table in the corner is open. A little breakfast always makes life look a little bit brighter. Even if it's not."

I pause, meeting her warm brown eyes. _She doesn't know, she can't know, she's just trying to sell the shop's pastries_, I tell myself quickly, all in a jumble. But even so, I feel exposed, like suddenly she can read me as easily as the book sticking out of her pocket. It's like when He used to look at me and read me, and even though I didn't really mind it when He did it, I sure as hell don't like it now.

"No, no thanks," I somehow manage to stammer, and leave as soon as possible, sloshing some coffee and burning my hand.

* * *

That night I wander home slowly. The day's been a blur, just like all the others. A kid shot in a gang fight, an elderly lady who fell and broke a hip, and a bloody, broken man coming in from a car crash stand out in my memory. The war, Mrs. Hudson, and Him. Somehow I can never escape the reminders of my past lives.

It's dark already and the streets are empty, but up ahead of me, I can see a figure sitting on a bus stop bench.

No way. Not again.

It's a sandwich and crisps this time, instead of soup and a banana, but there she is. Mary Temple, the barista, is eating a sandwich and waiting for the bus.

I stop. My brain is automatically trying to figure out a way to get by her without being seen. There are other ways around the block.

No, no, this is silly. I'm a grown man. I can walk past a woman I barely know. I used to do it every day. I'm acting like a child, by far the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.

_**And you invaded Afghanistan.**_

The whispered memory spurs me into action. With a shake of my head, I am stepping forward. And, just like I predicted, she's turning. She sees me. And she smiles.

"Good evening," she says easily, that same cheeky smile.

I nod, smile, and make to go past her, but something stops me. I'm aware that I'm be childish again. Avoiding the world.

So I force myself to turn round and speak.

"Do you always eat supper on benches?"

Caught in mid-bite, she looks surprised. Apparently she thought I really was going past. In the few conversations we've had, I guess she's noticed I'm not exactly great at them.

"Sometimes," she says slowly, but with a dawning twinkle in her eye. "Are you off to the cemetery again?"

Against my will, the corner of my mouth quirks up. "Not tonight. Just heading home."

"On a Friday night?"

"I'm not exactly one for a lot of company."

She surveys me, nodding thoughtfully. Then she holds the crisp bag out to me. "Crisp?"

I stare at her. "I've just told you I'm not one for company, you know practically nothing about me, and now you're offering me crisps?"

She shrugs, with a cheeky tweak to her eyebrow. "So I maybe I like to live a bit dangerously."

_**You're under stress, and your hand is perfectly steady.**_

I don't have to look down to know that my left hand, the one that has started randomly trembling when I'm alone since He's died, is completely still.

_**You're not haunted by the war…**_

There are many kinds of war.

**… **_**you miss it.**_

And God help me, but I sit down and take a crisp.

* * *

I don't stay long. Her bus comes soon and we don't talk too much. But, though my deduction skills may not be the best, I learn two interesting things about Mary Temple.

First, the reason she's eating dinner on a bus bench, rather than at home or somewhere more interesting.

"What about you? You're not going out? You'd rather eat here?" I say after eating a crisp quietly for a minute.

Mary laughs. "No, only a couples days a week when I have class. I don't have time to go home and have supper there, so I get something and eat it here or on the bus."

"Class?"

"Night school. I'm working on getting my teaching credentials." She finishes her sandwich and rustles around in the crisp bag and pops one in her mouth before wiping her hands on a paper napkin. "I graduated from university with a degree in literature, and you know what they say about that."

Well, that explains the books constantly sticking out of her apron pocket. I can see this morning's book just peeking out of her purse on the ground between her feet. "What do they say?"

"That you're only qualified for two jobs then, and teaching is top of the list."

"What's the other?"

She winks at me. "Serving coffee."

And I can't help it. It happens so unexpectedly and for the first time in so long. I start laughing.

The second thing is that, not only is Mary quite observant, she's not timid about what she discovers.

Having eaten probably more of the crisp bag than I'd like to think, I stand up to leave, not long after the serving coffee comment. The bus has appeared down at the end of the street.

"Well goodnight," I say, nodding my head politely and turning to go. I only get a few meters before she calls out to me though.

"John?" I pause and look back at her. She's considering me carefully.

"Can I ask you something?"

A million possibilities run through my head, and I have no idea what she's getting at. But my pause does not seem to deter Mary at all, because she continues on.

"Your limp is gone."

I blink and look down. She's right. I'm only holding the cane relaxed in my hand, not actually using it or thinking about it.

_**Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid.**_

When I glance back at Mary, she's still observing me quietly, simply curious. Maybe it's because of that calm, open expression on her face (or maybe since there's really no other way to explain it), I tell her the truth.

"It… it's psychosomatic. It comes and goes." Ok, maybe not all the truth. Then again, even I don't know why the limp's chosen this particular moment to abandon me.

I half expect Mary to be confused, wary, or even simply disgusted at my strange mind and how it presents itself on my body, but she's not. She just nods, like she understands.

And that's it.

"Well, see you Monday morning, I suppose," Mary waves. "Goodnight Just John."

Then she's gone, and I'm left to stumble home because I can't figure out if I'm limping or not.

That night though, for the first time, I make the conscious decision not to go buy coffee.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._

(A Note On Mary: In the spirit of Sherlock, I have tried to make Mary's background as close to a modern equivalent of the Sherlock Holmes character as I can while keeping it realistic, interesting, and fitting with the Sherlock story.

Thanks to Sora'struelover and especially to hjohn302 for reading and reviewing. Please leave reviews and let me know what you think so I know some people are interested.)


	4. Routine

**Yes, it's a bit more exposition-y. Please bear with me. I will actually start really going somewhere. Next chapter is exciting. This one just had to happen in order to get there. Please read, and for goodness sake review!**

When I wake up that Monday, it's two hours earlier than usual. Attempts at falling asleep again prove to be futile, so, grumbling somewhat, I roll out of bed and commence getting ready for work.

"You're up early," Mary comments with a smile as I enter the café. "Getting to work in a hurry?"

"No, the my shift at the hospital doesn't start for over an hour. Just, just ahead of schedule."

For once, Mary's too busy serving other customers to serve me, so the flirty (though she's not been so flirty ever since she first noticed my cane, don't need a superhuman deduction ability to work that one out) red-haired barista helps me instead.

"Are you drinking it here or taking it with you?" she asks as the register dings.

I open my mouth to day to go, then stop suddenly. What am I going to do? Get to work an hour early? No thank you. I could go sit in a park or something but the weather's been getting colder lately.

"Uh, here."

"Great," replies the woman with no inflection. "Find a table and I'll bring your coffee to you when it's ready."

People bustle in and out, but not many are staying and several tables are empty. An elderly gentleman and some chattery ladies gossiping, a group of university age students meeting, various people eating or drinking coffee before work. A table off to the side next to the window is empty, a quick scan of the café reveals, and I head towards it. Since I didn't exactly expect to be here, I've got nothing to do as I drink coffee, so I filch an abandoned paper off a table as I pass.

It's actually rather nice. I haven't stopped to just sit and read the paper in ages.

**_"_**_****__Nothing?"_  
**_"_**_****__Military coup in Uganda."_  
**_"_**_****__Humph."_  
**_"_**_****__Ha, another photo of you with the uh…"_  
_****__Sigh._  
**_"_**_****__Oh, um cabinet reshuffle?"_  
**_"_**_****__Nothing of importance?"_

The barista clunks the cup down in front of me, jerking me out of an article. "Here you go. Just leave the cup and plate on the counter when you're done."

"Plate?" I lower the paper to see a small plate with a crumpet, a pat of butter, and a butter knife.

The barista's already moving away but I call her back.

"Excuse me, but I didn't order anything to eat."

She turns, looking exasperated. "Well, it had your name on it."

I look back down at the table. There's a small tag, like one someone might write orders on, that says, "1 coffee, black, milk, no sugar" and underneath, "1 crumpet".

Confused, I open my mouth and look to the counter, where the red-haired barista's already returned, to continue my protests, but my eye lands on Mary first. She smiles and winks.

I close my mouth. Then I smile slightly back. It's early. I have some time before work. I might as well read the paper and eat a crumpet.

* * *

The table by the window is soon "my" table. I arrive at the café early and have something to eat while I drink my coffee and read the paper. Mary passes by and talks to me sometimes. The other barista (her name is Heather I finally learn) warms to me enough to flirt with me again (despite the disability cane) when it's a quiet day and there's nothing else to do.

_**"**__**Bored."**_

I smile politely at them both and make small talk, still feeling out of practice but slowly getting used to it.

It's a routine of sorts. Life at the hospital doesn't change, and soon my mornings are just as static.

* * *

I do tell Dr. Thompson this. Well, I don't tell her much. I tell her I've been having coffee every day at a café. She says it's good for me to get out of my flat. That I'm starting to make connections. She says I'm less tight and tense, and there's more of an ease to my movements and speech.

I ask if that means I can stop coming as regularly. She gives that laugh she does when something is amusing but she's not actually amused.

I'm only half joking.

I don't tell her about Mary.

* * *

I'm not sure what there is to tell really.

It doesn't make much sense to me, how to express what it is.

Sometimes I see Mary on the way home, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I avoid the bus stop when I know she might be there, sometimes I don't. If we do meet, we greet each other and might chat for a few minutes before moving on.

We know relatively nothing about each other. She's friendly when faced with people, but quiet and serious when she's not, standing behind the counter in a slow moment. The book in her apron pocket changes every few days, depending on the thickness. She reads it if no one is ordering. Sometimes she recommends a book to me if I finish the paper too quickly. Most are well-respected pieces of literature that I've heard of but never had the time, or presence of mind, to read. Heather, who passes once during one of these exchanges, says she can't understand how Mary understands any of what she's reading, that the language is too thick. But since our talk of night school on the bus stop bench, Mary doesn't usually spontaneously volunteer information.

Not that I do either. I don't share much of myself. At all. Still at times I feel her examining me, like an x-ray. Like she can see some of the things I'm not saying, that I never say, ever.

It seems too disjointed to be a real connection, progressing nowhere, just spinning in space. Yet I feel no press to develop it further, or even to retreat. It's fine. Just leave it be.

I keep coming in the mornings. Somehow, it's peaceful. The bustle of the people coming and going, the smell of coffee permeating everything, talking and dings from the door and whirs from the machines behind the counters crashing together in an odd harmony. For once, everything around me doesn't remind me (well, not too much anyway) of Him. Or of the lack of Him. It just is.

Nothing changes. It's routine.

I like it.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	5. Reminders

**Thank you for the Story Alerts, but please review so I know what you're thinking. I want feedback!**

It hits me from the moment I wake up, a brick wall stopping me short. I consider not bothering getting up for a while, but I know from last year that being alone in an empty flat is even worse than gritting my teeth and going to work.

That doesn't mean it's easy. Sitting on the bed, I take a deep, shaky breath, shutting out the voices and memories thundering on the inside of my head. I am a soldier. I live with demons every day. Today is no different.

What bollocks.

* * *

I get through the beginning of the morning fairly well behind my steel mask. Buy coffee, decide to have some jam to go with my crumpet (apricot, I can't handle the red of strawberry, not today), stare blankly at the paper (ok, maybe not so normal but I'm trying).

Then Harry calls.

**_"_**_****__Me and Harry don't get on. Never have."_

The worst part is, I'm so out of it, I actually pick up before checking who it is.

"John!" Even Harry seems surprised I answered. I've been successfully avoiding her calls for a while. "How are you?"

"Oh, Harry, hullo. Getting along."

Long pause. "That's— that's good."

"How are you?"

"Oh, very well."

Another long pause. Playing chicken to see who'll make the first move.

**_"_**_****__You've got problems with [her]…"_

"I just was calling… I wanted to see if you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

"John—"

"Really Harry. Anyway, you must be busy. You said last time Clara was thinking of moving back in."

The silence, broke by a sigh told me that didn't plan work out. Surprise, surprise.

**_"… _**_****__maybe you liked [her] wife…"_

"Look, John, do you need some company tonight?"

"No thank you Harry, I'm really fine."

"I don't want you to do something stupid!"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "That's rich, coming from you."

**_"… _**_****__maybe you don't like [her] drinking."_

Now the silence is an angry one. When she speaks again her tone is clipped. "I'm trying to help you John. Didn't you used to be the one talking about how it was ok to ask for help, to keep trying to get better?"

"Harry, thank you for trying, but I'm doing well. I'm actually meeting someone tonight."

"Who—"

"It's been great talking to you, but I have to go. They need me early at the hospital."

"But—"

"Goodbye Harry."

"Bye John." She sounds sulky, but I hang up before she can say any more.

Of course, as soon as I set the phone down, it dings with a text.

_How are you? Want to meet up for drinks? GL_

Lestrade. Why do people who you haven't been in contact with always assume you suddenly want to see them and be condemned to awkward small talk on the day they know is bad enough already?

_No thanks. I've got plans. JW_

A few seconds late it dings again.

_Keep your head up John. GL _

I need to think about something else. I look up wildly.

Mary and Heather are having an animated conversation.

"I can't believe you!" Heather says.

"Ten quid!" chuckles Mary, holding out her hand.

Heather reluctantly hands over the money. "Not fair," she grumbles, as Mary, still laughing, picks up a rag and goes to wipe the table two over from mine.

I don't really want to get involved, but I do need a distraction. "What's the matter?"

Mary looks up and smiles. "Nothing, we just—"

"Mary's showing off her super power," Heather calls.

"Her what?"

"She can like, tell stuff by looking at you. Said the nice man who was talking to me was married." She frowns bitterly.

"No one wears a tie like that unless his kids gave it to him!" cajoles Mary.

Heather's still pouting. "He didn't have a ring."

"And yet he completely blanched, stopped flirting with you, and fled when you asked. I win the ten quid, fair in square."

I'm still hung up on what Heather said. It goes around and around in my head.

"You can tell things by looking at people?"

Mary stands, gathering the rag and some discarded napkins in her hand. "Yeah I suppose. You get good at reading people in a job like this, watching them come and go."

She moves to go past me, and she almost does before I say it.

"Will you read me?"

I shouldn't. Not today. Not any day, but…. I can't help it. It's been too long. Two years.

Pausing, Mary considers me. "What?"

"What can you read from me? With your super power."

She shifts uncomfortably. "I don't know if I should, it's kind of invasive. People get annoyed by stuff like that."

_**"**__**What do people normally say?"**_  
"_**Piss off."**_

"Please. I promise I won't storm out of here." I smile, trying to be convincing. I don't know why I'm pushing this.

Mary sighs and smiles, cocking her head to eye me. "Well," she begins conversationally. "You don't like sweet things. No sugar and only occasionally do you ask for jam. Uh, you're not a big sportsman. You only glance at the football news in the paper. It's always left sitting on the table, unread."

"Is that all?" It's all very superficial. Disappointing.

She laughs. "How deep do you want me to go?" When I don't break eye contact with her, she folder her arms and settles into a comfortable stance.

"Fine. You're economical. Your clothes are plain, your hair cut plain." Her eyes focus, and her speech begins to run together following her thoughts, forgetting everything else in the room, as she continues to talk. "Still very military. A bit stuck in your ways then maybe. The clothes hang off you. You've lost weight, you haven't been feeling well. For a while maybe because the clothes are a little old and frayed.

"You're an army doctor. Possibly set home for injury? Not the leg, it's something more or else it'd most likely been PTS and you'd be much less likely to still work in a hospital. Anyway, just a guess. You could have been honorably discharged. But though the leg trouble is from the war, what ever is bothering you is not. You'd forgotten the army card in your wallet, you've been back for some time and it's not the first thing on your mind. What ever else happened, happened more recently. Not very recently, because you've numbed, but something caused you to shut down. Maybe…"

Mary blinks and seems to become aware of her surroundings again. I must be staring at her in shock because she blushes and mutters, "sorry," bustling off to make herself busy quickly.

I slowly unfreeze. It's not quite the same as He does, most of the stuff is said in speculation, guesses, but it's close. I don't know what I expected. I'm not angry, not sad, not happy, nothing. I don't really feel anything. As if she was describing someone else. The only thing revolving in my brain is the constant calendar that's been going all morning, helpfully reminding me that at about this time two years ago, I was heading to the bank, about to be abducted by Mycroft yet again and told that there were assassins living in my building.

This day can not get any more bizarre.

A statement that I, of all people, should know not to say, I realize a minute later, when Mary passes me again and my mouth opens of its own accord and says the strangest thing.

"Would you like to have a bite to eat with me tonight?"

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	6. Rash Decisions

**Well that's long and **_**very **_**rough, but it's something. Review, review, review**.

That's not what I meant to say.

I didn't mean to say anything actually.

But certainly not that.

The story I told Harry and Greg about having plans was just that, a story. I didn't have any intent to really make any.

I am absolutely gobsmacked.

And so is Mary by her face. Maybe not quite as much, but she blinks a few times and opens her mouth wide.

"What?"

Here's my chance. Brush it off, make something up, get out of there and never come back.

The words are halfway out though, before I pause. Two years ago at this time I'm being addressed by name by a bank machine and climbing into Mycroft's nondescript black car. The flashbacks are only going to get worse as the day goes on. Maybe… maybe, a distraction's not the worst thing today. Something to keep me in the present. Or just from going completely insane.

So, with Mary (and Heather, and a fair number of the café patrons as well) staring at me, I swallow deeply and make a choice.

"Um, would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

She hesitates, closing her mouth and shifting from foot to foot.

"Nothing fancy or anything," I clarify. "Just, uh, relaxed, and talking and…" I've no idea what I'm saying. But she still is hesitant, like she can't quite figure out how to respond, so I start to backtrack. "Unless, you have other plans. It's—"

"Oh, no!" Mary starts. "No, no, it's not that. I'd love to have dinner." (am I relieved or suddenly more nervous?) "It's just," she bites her lip, and I get a stab of trepidation over what she's about to say.

"I've just got a thing about going out with men whose last name I don't know."

Now it's my turn to blink. I'd forgotten I'd still never told her my full name. Some people still recognize it from my blog, and I'd been happy to remain the enigmatic "Just John".

As Mary smiles apologetically at my silence and moves to go past me, I turn and blurt out "Watson." She looks back. "John Watson."

She grins.

* * *

I have a date. I actually have a date.

"_**What?"  
**_"_**It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."  
**_"_**That's what I was suggesting."  
**_"_**No it wasn't. At least I hope not."**_

Not a romantic one. Not from my perspective. We're just going to a local pub to have something to eat about an hour after we both get off work.

But still.

Mary had a point. Most of my clothes are too big for me, I realize as contemplate what to wear later that evening. My usual date-wear is old and dusty from lack of use and hangs off me. I really need to remember to eat more. And sleep better. And generally get back to normal. Yeah right.

_I used to be good at this_, I think, struggling to find matching socks. _I actually used to be a bit smooth._

"_**She likes books then, your girlfriend?"  
**_"_**No, it wasn't a date. And I don't have one tonight."**_

Finally dressed, I examine my appearance in the mirror.

This is ridiculous.

I am no hunk.

In fact, with my baggy coat, blue-checkered shirt, plain trousers, and scuffed shoes, I look like a shabby, out-of-touch English professor. Then again, Mary is a literature major. Maybe she likes that sort of thing.

What's not helping, is Mary's age. Even though I don't know the exact number, I know it's a good deal lower than mine. I'm quickly approaching forty (just another thing to weigh on me in my life), and Mary looks like she's in her late twenties. The uncomfortable fact that I could be old enough to _be _her English teacher is not putting my mind at ease.

Not too late to cancel I suppose. I close my eyes. Two years ago at this moment, the bell rings at 221B.

"_**No, Inspector."  
**_"_**What?"  
**_"_**The answer's no."**_

I grit my teeth and straighten my spine. I can do this. Whatever happens, I've certainly had more disastrous dates.

* * *

I spot Mary as soon as she walks through the door of the pub. It's just down around the corner from my flat so I've been there for five minutes before she breezes in. For a moment before she notices me, I just watch her.

She's wearing a long shirt with thick black and white stripes and a black jacket that matches the dark leather boots she's got on over her jeans. Soft curls in her hair (it's gotten longer since I first met her, the longest curls almost reach her shoulders now), the round locket I've never seen her without, and the purple and blue cloth bag her hands are currently clenching and unclenching, complete the look.

She looks… pretty. Very pretty.

I stand, and she sees me. She smiles as she comes over, and I can't help but smile back.

"Good evening John," Mary said with a twinkle in her eye as she slides into the seat across from me.

"Good evening Mary," I reply, sitting back down. "You look very nice."

"You don't look too bad yourself," she responds with some cheek.

So the evening starts off pleasantly, and for a while I think maybe, just maybe, it'll stay that way. Mary smiles and laughs, we trade light, pleasant conversation, I start to relax.

"Ah, crème brulé," murmurs Mary, scanning the menu with a chuckle.

"A favorite?"

She smirks. "A funny story. When I was young, my brother tried to make it. Unsupervised."

I raise an eyebrow, able to guess where this is going. "Did he succeed?"

"No, but he nearly destroyed our back garden."

"Garden? Not the house?"

"He thought it would be unsafe to try it in the kitchen. Bit fancy for a pub though."

"They're trying to branch out."

She laughs and shakes her head, and I can't help but follow suit.

The talk inevitably turns to me as our dinner comes (shepherd's pie for Mary, beef stew for me), and I try not to show my discomfort at the personal questions, knowing that I should have known they would come eventually.

"How'd you become a doctor?"

"I guess I just wanted to help and heal people."

"And… joining the army?"

"They paid for the training. And anyway, plenty of people to help and heal over there."

She nods at that, a sad look on her face. It's one I see a lot, that or pity or surprised that the horrible things they hear of on the telly are actually happening, usually accompanied with some hackneyed expression of displeasure at the world.

"_**I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?"  
**_"_**I got shot."  
**_"…_**"**_

But tonight it supposed to be about keeping unpleasant thoughts from my mind.

"How about you? How'd you come to be literature expert in a café?"

A laugh. "Nothing as profound, I'm afraid. To be honest, it was a bit of a rebellious choice."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah," she chews a bite of pie, chasing a stray pea around the plate. "I was an angsty, disillusioned teenager, and I decided I was going to study whatever I liked, damn the fact my dad wanted me to pick something that'd get me a job."

"I suppose you did end up with one in the end though," I point out with a chuckle.

"Oi! Don't knock the job!" She actually pokes her tongue out at me. Bold, this one. "I don't really mind it. Lots of chances to watch people."

"Hence the reading them?"

"It's a sort of curiosity. I don't usually share my findings. Bad reactions and such. You're the first who's offered me dinner as a result, though."

"Call it my sort of curiosity." When she raises an eyebrow, I have no choice but to elaborate. "I knew a man once who could tell everything about you with one look. I wanted to see if it was similar."

Mary nods, considering. "I'm not quite that good. I'm sure I got things wrong."

"_**Did I get anything wrong?"**_

"I'm not a big sportsman, but I do follow rugby sometimes." This makes her laugh again. I smile too, but sober as (yet again) I speak without stopping to think. "You said something was bothering me."

Mary pauses.

"Why?" I can't help but ask.

"I hate to break it to you John, but you are not the cheerfullest of blokes."

That does get a dry chuckle out of me, but I persist, maybe because I'm on my second pint, or maybe because right now two years ago my temper is getting the best of me, leading to being shoved against a police car, handcuffed to Him, and yet another frantic chase though London.

"I'm an army doctor. I've seen lots of things that bother me."

"_**Enough for a lifetime."**_

A cock of the head tells me that Mary is also suspicious as to why I'm pushing this, but thank God she doesn't question me. I don't know how I would even begin to answer her.

"Of course. I suppose, I just said it because the sadness in your eyes looks sharper, more acute. The loss of one special person, not overarching horrors. Though that's bound to leave some scares."

"You sound as if you've seen the difference before."

Her expression softens, and I realize I'm seeing her, behind all her cheer. "I have. In mine. I grew up in a children's home for the first seven years of my life. Then when I was sixteen, my Mum, well adoptive Mum, but the best Mum in the world anyway, died. Two sorts of pain."

"I'm sorry," is all I can say.

"Thank you." Mary nods in acknowledgment, mixing around the remains of her pie with her fork. Then she glances up at me with smirk and points the fork at me suddenly. "Now, is that enough for your curiosity?"

I smile back and nod, picking up my own fork. "Yes. For now."

* * *

Against all odds, the dinner concludes with no mishaps. We split a piece of pie, I insist on paying like a gentlemen, and we leave together, stepping into the cool night air. It feels nice on my face, calming and soothing after the couple pints I've had.

"Well, I suppose…" I trail off as I turn and catch sight on Mary fiddling with her blue and purple clothe bag. With what I thought was a blue and purple cloth bag. What are in fact a purple cloth bag and a blue _scarf_.

Mary ties it on and looks around, completely unaware of any resemblance she might bare to anyone.

The nice warmth from the beer drains away as my blood has run cold, making me feel sick. I can't think, can't do anything besides stare at the scrap of blue wool. In a valiant effort to act normal, I turn and begin walking in the direction of both the entrance to the tube and my flat. Mary follows, oblivious to my sudden panic as I shift around for something to say.

"So who did I lose then?" I finally blurt out.

She sighs and shakes her head. "Oh no, now I'm really heading into insensitive territory."

"No really," I make it clear to her I'm in earnest. Maybe I want to see if others really can read it, read Him, read all we've done, in me. If He's marked me physically as much as he's marked me mentally (like with that God damned scarf). "Do your worst." It'll keep my mind occupied at least.

Mary rolls her eyes and shakes her head, disbelieving, but she thinks anyway.

"A parent would be, no offence, getting to the age when death is not exactly unexpected. The strength of your reaction, suggests that it was sudden and a surprise. Someone younger dying before their time. Sibling maybe, but again the intensity of your reaction means there was a very deep connection, one that, I can say from experience, does not always occur between siblings."

I can't help but laugh at this, thinking of Harry.

"And it's certainly not a lover," she states.

"Why not?" It's not, but I'm curious.

Mary looks at me like I'm an idiot. "You asked me to dinner, remember? Not exactly the behavior of someone grieving their wife or girlfriend. And before you continue to play devil's advocate, it would be a wife or girlfriend because I've seen you eye women who come in while you're having your breakfast, but never men."

"_**For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."**_

Apparently someone finally noticed.

We've reached the stoop to my flat. I pause out of habit. The tube in another block and a half down the street. While I realize, perhaps a bit belatedly that it would be gentlemanly to walk Mary to the tube, she checks her watch and curses softly.

"What?"

"I just remembered that the last tube here just ran. Stupid."

I'd forgotten too. I haven't exactly been traveling around the city much lately.

"No matter," Mary continues. "I'll catch a cab."

We both look up and down the street, noticing that it's deserted. All the cabs are back by the pub we came from.

I sigh. No escaping it now. I may be depressed and broken, but I still have a conscience. Plus anything to get her out of that damn scarf.

"Would you like to come in? I can make a cuppa while you call a cab."

Mary smiles.

The inside of the flat is clean thankfully, and Mary looks around curiously. "Nice. Cozy." I try not to chuckle at her blatant optimism.

"Hey, is that the same bottle of Scotch you were buying when I saved you from the chip and pin machine?" Mary points thought the door into the tiny kitchen.

"Oh, yeah," I realize. I'd forgotten it. "Hadn't gotten around to opening it." It's suddenly very tempting. I've already had a few pints and more alcohol is probably not the best idea, but I feel the memory of handcuffs wore two years ago, and so I decide to hell with it. "Do you want some?"

"Why not?"

So that's how we end up in the sitting room, both of us with a glass in our hands, me on the small couch while Mary peruses my very limited bookshelves.

"So you've ruled out everything, and just left a friend then," I say, the fuzzy warmth seeping back into me.

"What?"

"My loss."

"I haven't ruled out anything," Mary sighs and chuckles. "I'm just guessing. For all I know I could be in the complete wrong direction. You could have a father who you are very close to and who was suddenly killed in a tragic accident, and what the Hell am I saying?" She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry. Give me the bottle, quick."

"Help yourself," I say, handing it to her bottle. "And both my parents are alive and well and living in Lancashire, so don't worry."

I flit in and out of the conversation after that. I think I'm telling her something about why most of my books are Dickens, but I can't remember. Somehow I get to talking about the old sound system from my Uni days that's now occupying a corner of the room's floor.

Mary kneels in front of it, seeing if it still works, while I take another sip. I've forgotten how much I've had now, which is probably not good, and vaguely in the back of my mind I remember that a cab has yet to be called, but then a smooth, sad song is playing, and Mary stands up, brushing herself off.

"Well the radio works." She closes her eyes and sways, and I watch her. She's taken off her shoes and coat, so her arms and feet are bare, and she moves gracefully. When she opens her eyes and sees my gaze following her, she smiles and holds out her hands.

"Dance with me?"

The room sways as I stand and I'm more drunk than I thought, but my steps towards her are more sure and limp free than they have been in a long time. And as we dance, all I'm aware of is her and her smile and her hair and the feel of her hand in mine, and we spin and the room begins to revolve and everything dissolves into colors and sounds, and goes dark.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	7. Repercussions

**You must review so I know if you want me to continue!**

The first thing I'm aware of when I wake up is my head throbbing. No, not throbbing, it's pounding fit to burst and feels as if someone's taking a very large hammer to my temples. Everything else is kind of fuzzy, and I lie there for a second in bed, trying to manage the pain and remember how I got here.

I drank a bit too much last night, that much is obvious. But there's something else, something I'm forgetting. A strand of music weaves its way into my memories. Dancing. Light. A pub. I was with someone. On a date. A date. Mary!

The events of last time come surging back in flashes, leading up to us dancing in the sitting room, and… oh God. A scrap of self-awareness comes though the haze, just enough for me to realize I'm lying in bed, alone, and _naked._

I bolt up out of bed, the pounding in my head redoubling, but with a huge effort, I ignore it and throw on the first pair of trousers and jumper I can find, racing out into the flat with my arm still only half in the sleeve.

There, in the kitchen, I stop dead. Because there she is.

Mary looks up at me from where she stands by the kettle.

"Good morning," she said softly, almost shyly. Her hair is a little tousled, like she's tried to comb it with her fingers and not quite got it all, and, she got her clothes from last night on again, save for the boots.

When I don't reply, just stare at her, probably not quite hiding how aghast I am, she looks away again.

I don't normally do this. Even when He was alive, I was a gentleman who'd never sleep with a woman on the first date.

**_"Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know."  
"What about the time after that?"_**

Mary's talking again. Chatting on about something.

"You seemed to be out of coffee, so I made tea instead. Hope you don't mind. Would you like some?" she shots me a glance. It's then that I realize this isn't ordinary, cheerful banter. It's nervous chatter. Mary's unsure of how to proceed too. That fact give me some courage, and I take a deep, trying to steady myself.

"No, thanks."

She gives me a small smile. The kettle whistles and Mary turns back to the tend to the stove. Feeling awkward just standing there, I go to the cupboard, taking down a mug for her tea. Mary takes the cup gratefully, relaxing with more warmth seeping back into her smile.

Once her tea is made, we both pause, her leaning against the counter, me against the table, watching each other.

Belatedly remembering manners, I ask, "Oh, do you want something to eat?"

"No, no," she shakes her head. "Thanks. I'm fine."

Silence again.

"Look, I d—"

"So this i—"

We both start and stop at the same time, breaking off abruptly.

"Um, you—you first," I mutter, waving a hand.

"Ah, well," Mary shuffles her feet a bit, "I just… well, I did have a bit too much to drink last night, and I'm, I'm not that kind of a person normally, but I just wanted you to know that and that I did have a wonderful time last night, and I hope this doesn't make thing awkward."

She finishes in a rush. I try to find my voice.

"Well," she smiles, mimicking my hand wave. "Your turn."

There's a pause, then I just blurt it out.

"Mary, I didn't want this to happen."

She blinks and swallows, startled by my bluntness. Internally I cringe, but I persist, sure that this is the right course of action.

"I mean, I didn't mean for this to happen. Especially with you. I like you, I do, but last night was a mistake, and I've wrecked it, and I'm sorry."

Examining the pattern of the floor, Mary twists the mug in her hands and murmurs, "It doesn't have to be wrecked, John." She glances up at me and my stomach clenches.

"Look, I'm… I'm not a normal guy, or even really a good one, as I think I just proved. I—I think it's better if, if we go backwards."

Mary's jaw is clenched, but she nods, then fakes an almost genuine smile. "I should go," she says evenly, placing the mug on the counter. "Thank you for the tea."

I stay in the kitchen, back leaning against the counter. Sighing, I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach.

**_"I'm just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"  
"Kinder? No… That wasn't kind."_**

As harsh as my words must have sounded, they were true. I like Mary, I really do. She gets under my skin somehow. Once upon a time I'd be eager to take her out again to the cinema or something.

Once upon a time, a long time ago.

This time two years ago, I'm stepping out of a cab in front of Barts. As I do, my mobile rings.

The past still haunts me. I've proven last night that I'm not capable of normal human interaction any more. I can't trust myself to sod it all up. People will just get hurt, myself included. And Mary doesn't deserve that.

Listening absentmindedly, I can hear her shuffling with her boots in the hall, then a few footsteps, and the door swings shut. She's gone.

This time two years ago, He falls, falls and falls, into the early morning grey sky, the same color as the one today seems to be, and tries to fly.

I am alone.

* * *

Life goes on. As it always does. No matter what terrible things happen in the world, it always keeps on revolving.

I buy coffee, making it in my cold flat every morning. By myself.

* * *

Life is grey, like it was back before I met Him. It's hazy now though, since He's... gone. I don't notice the details of the days anymore. They blend into each other. An endless routine of work and sleep. It doesn't require any thinking. I wonder if that makes the pain better or worse?

* * *

Maybe by accident, maybe just to make sure I don't take that final step and truly go crazy, maybe just because she's _there_, I actually open up to Dr. Thompson for once.

A little.

"Are you making any progress connecting with people?" she asks one day, who knows how long after I stop going to the café every morning (I've lost count).

"I met a woman," I answer in a flat voice. "I saw her for a little while."

"Romantically?" Dr. Thompson is intrigued.

"Sort of. It didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"Stuff. Accidents. I was stupid, and I messed it up."

Dr. Thompson sighs, resting her hands on top of her pad to level a sympathetic (or what's probably supposed to be a sympathetic) look at me. "John, self-destructive behavior is common, and not unexpected in this—"

"I'm not self-destructive," I cut her off mildly.

"Do you miss seeing her?"

I shrug. "I suppose."

"Well then, why don't you go talk to her. Apologize. Try to fix it."

"No, I don't really know how. Anyway, it's too much effort for someone I barely know, and who'd probably tell me to sod off."

"Now that definitely does not sound like self-destructive behavior."

I resist the urge to glare at her.

What does she know about it? Yes, I'm alone, and yes, I'm fine with it.

**_"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_**

I'm fine with it.

No one to bother me, to text me at odd hours, to become a drunkard, or kill themselves, or to drag me into their life and leave me behind, broken, and trying to take care of everyone in the end.

Life goes on.

Days pass, weeks, months.

The earth revolves around the sun.

It's all fine.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


	8. A Good Man

**REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW. Note: I am now attending college, and my ability to post will become severely impaired (if you haven't noticed already). Please review as it will motivate me to get going quicker.**

When you are alone though, time seems to blur by, melding together into a sort of dream, until one day you have a moment of clarity and see months have passed.

It's winter now, the air biting and tugging at my face when I go out each morning. I don't own a scarf, so I ruefully turn up the collar on my coat.

**_"… turning your coat collar up so you look cool."_**

I've missed Christmas I think, which explains why my mum called a while back, asking if I was coming round for dinner. Guiltily, I hope Harry cleaned up enough to visit them, because I wasn't up to it. I do think I remembered to send them a present, but Christmas just isn't my holiday. What is, to be honest?

Work is busy, as it always is during the winter. People freezing or falling ill or getting injured because of the snow and ice. The other doctors and I run around like mad, trying to get everyone coming into the A&E room sorted. It's good. Keeps my mind off things. And since I don't have much time in which to see everyone anyway, I can keep moving from person to person.

"Here John," a nurse hands me a file. "Patient with a hurt wrist, possibly broken, and some bruises. Slipped on a patch of ice."

I nod and head off to the bed she's pointed me to. The curtain is partially closed, but I step around it in a businesslike manner and… freeze.

You have got to be shitting me.

Mary Temple is sitting on the bed facing way from me. She doesn't see me, due to another nurse is checking her pupils (slipped on ice the first nurse said, Mary must have hit her head as well), so I'm able to stare unabashedly shocked at the back of her head for a few minutes.

We haven't spoken again since she left my flat that morning. I never thought, in a city as big as London, that we ever would.

But here she is. Dropping into my life again.

How does she do that?

For a second I entertain a wild notion I could just step back out and hand the file off to another doctor, but (too late) the nurse spots me and waves me closer.

"Oh good." She pats Mary on the shoulder. "No concussion, just the wrist. Don't worry, Dr. Watson will have you good as new in no time, dear."

Mary smiles at the nurse's retreating back, but it slips when she sees me. We stare at each other while the nurse, oblivious, leaves with a cheery wave.

"Hello," I finally say, breaking the tense silence.

"Hey," replies Mary softly, with a gentle smile.

"Um how've you been?"

"Not bad. You?"

"Can't complain." We're still watching each other, almost shyly. "You look good," I say, a bit randomly to be honest. Isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to say anyway?

(She does though. Her hair's even longer now, stretching down her back in a thick dark wave, her skin still a tan brown, even with the lack of sun, though flushed with what must be pain, and her eyes bright for the same reason. She's got on a cream colored jumper, and a thick purple coat, striped fingerless gloves, and a matching hat lie on the bed next to her.)

"You look like shit," Mary says conversationally.

And just like that I break, laughing and feeling as though I've abruptly come up for air after holding my breath for the first time in months.

"Can't argue with that," I say, coming over to her, suddenly feeling more at ease. "What happened to your wrist?"

"Slipped on a patch of ice on my way to work. I was in a hurry. Tried to catch myself with my hand."

"Now we can't have that," I say, slipping into my friendly doctor voice. "How are you going to serve coffee?"

She rolls her eyes in retaliation, but winces when I take her arm gently A quick examination, through which Mary bites her lip and doesn't say anything, reveals that the wrist is only sprained, not broken, and Mary lets out a sigh of relief. Soon it's bandaged up with instructions to not use it for a few weeks, and I'm writing her a prescription for painkillers.

"Not bad Dr. Watson," Mary says, surveying my handiwork.

**_"Any good?"_**

**_"Very good."_**

I can't help but give a chuckle and a wry grin. "Just doing my job. Here you go."

She hops off the table, and picks up her gloves and coat with her good hand. Helpfully, I pick up her hat and drape it on her other arm. Mary grins and bows her head in thanks.

I'm already turning back to her file to finish writing the last notes, thinking she's leaving, when I hear her speak again.

"So, I'll see you around, John?"

Pausing, I look up at her. She's regarding me intently, the cheekiness gone and serious consideration in its place. I open my mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say.

How about the truth? "Maybe."

Mary gives me a small knowing smile. "Ok then." She turns to leave, but stops one more time, glancing over her shoulder. "And John? You are a good man. It's alright to reminded of that once in a while."

Then she's pushing past the curtain, and I'm left behind wondering how a random woman who keeps dropping in and out of my life can leave such utter mental and emotional turmoil in her wake.

* * *

Of course, it takes me some time to work up the courage to go back. A few mornings I make it almost up to the door, then hurry on past, embarrassed and tired, subjecting myself to the horrible coffee at work.

Then one evening, I'm wandering home in a daze. It's been a bad day. A particularly nasty car crash, families standing by in tearful shock, and, standing out most of all in my mind, a young boy with dark hair who died of a drug overdose not long after being brought in from an icy alleyway.

Before I know it, his pale face swimming in my mind, my feet have led me to the door of the café. It's dark inside, most of the lights inside are off and a closed sign hangs on the door.

Come on. Please, Mary. Just one more crazy, random meeting.

The café stays dark. Nothing moves around me on the street except a few cars, hissing through the snow. A hollowness that has nothing to do with the cold settles deeper into my chest as I bow my head.

**_"… so alone."_**

"John?"

My head shoots up.

And there she is. Coming out of the alley where the café's back entrance must be. Purple coat, blue scarf, dark hair, and shining eyes. My heart beats once, hard, at the sight of her. Maybe she notices the sudden tears pricking my eyes, maybe she thinks it's just the wind, but she comes up to me slowly, hesitantly.

"Are you ok?" asks Mary.

I can't help but let out a short burst of hard laughter. "Probably not." That earns me a wry smile. "Can I walk you to the bus or the tube or wherever you're going?"

She nods, and we set off, ice crunching under our feet to go with the swish of thick, warm fabric, and the sharp whistling of the wind.

"About what you said," I begin. I should feel awkward, uncomfortable, but it's too late for that. All I feel is tired and my voice is soft and even. "About being a good man."

I feel rather than see Mary turn her head to look at me, silently allowing me to go on.

"I've lost a lot of people in my life. People I could have saved. War buddies, my sister to alcoholism, strangers I'm supposed to take care of at work." A deep sigh huffs out, creating a huge ghostly cloud in the air.

"I lost my best friend. He committed suicide, jumping off a building right in front of me. And— I just keep thinking I could have done something to stop him, to save him."

I blink quickly and stare down at my shoes, hunching my shoulders.

"From what I hear," Mary says very gently, "you did save him. Several times."

Startled, I stop walking and bring my head up to stare at her. She bites her lip, almost shyly, and shuffles her feet.

"After you… stopped coming in the mornings, I… well, I was curious," explains Mary, embarrassed. "So I looked you up on the Internet, and, um, found your blog."

I lean back and let out a long "ah".

Mary still looks nervous. "I didn't mean to pry."

"No, no, it's fine." And it is. Strangely, I don't mind. It's almost a relief that I don't have to explain everything to her. "You've got to expect it when you post your thoughts on the Internet for everyone to see."

The corner of Mary's mouth quirks. "I suppose. But it's only to my general obliviousness to the majority of things going on in the world that I never put it together sooner."

How does she manage to always make me laugh? But I do.

She sobers though. "There are some demons John, that we can't defeat. However hard we try. But just because you failed doesn't mean you aren't a good man. If anything it means you are one."

"I heard once you shouldn't make people into heroes. They don't exist."

**_"And if they did I certainly wouldn't be one of them."_**

"Perhaps. But we all need something to believe in don't we? Does it matter if whatever God we choose is flawed? That only makes Him more dear."

I smile back at her, and as the snow and cold night air and stillness of the stars swirls around us, we stand there. Together. Just looking at each other. And I feel my heart again. Two beats this time. Like it's just starting to remember how.

_Sherlock, its lines, and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC One._


End file.
